A Change Is Overdue
by Zeroninety
Summary: In 2000, a bombshell announcement from Stormer leaves Roxy reeling.


A Change Is Overdue

All Characters, etc, property of Hasbro.

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><p>We never sounded better than that last rehearsal. God, I close my eyes and I can still hear how perfect we were. After nine albums, more than half a dozen world tours, and too many boring hours of rehearsal to count, The Misfits hit their fuckin' peak that day, and no one heard but the four of us. Sorry, world-you missed a hell of a show.<p>

We were so dialed in, half the evening we didn't even stop between songs. At one point we jumped straight from "Takin' it All" from '85, into "Top of the Charts" from '88, then "Forever the Best" off the new album, and finally "Victory" from '91, with Pizzazz, as always, dedicating the song to those twerps Jem and the Holograms.

"This goes out to our _dear friend_, Jem! We all know you disappeared because you finally figured out the MISFITS. ARE. IT!"

Yeah, I guess as the years passed, we treated all the swagger as more a joke between us and the fans than anything. But on days like this, when we were kicking ass in every direction, no _way_ was it an act. We knew we were the best. At least, I did.

Near the end of that night, we were running through another new song, "Sick of You." I had an especially juicy part on that one, and I did everything I could to make my guitar howl. I remember I glanced at Stormer after the solo, and she took her hands off her keytar long enough to give me two thumbs up. And why not? I'd never played better.

"It's no lie, I can't deny/ I'm just so damn sick of you!" Pizzazz usually held back at rehearsals, saving her wild energy for payday. But this day we were all feeling it, and she bounced around that studio like her hair was on fire. Not like the time it actually _was_, though—that's a whole 'nother story.

Even ol' Brit sounded good that day. Of course, all Jetta had to do on this song was play a simple, second keyboard line, and even _she_ couldn't screw that up!

The song ended on the record (cd, mp3, whatever—they're all records to me) with a fade out, but on stage we wanted to end with me and Stormer trading solos. Stormer always sounds great, but I kept up with her that day, believe me. No small feat, since my feet were busy playing the bass pedals as well. Yeah, you're right to be impressed!

I ripped into a solo and faced Stormer. She grinned and started stabbing out unexpected little notes on her keytar. I remember I thought about how strange she looked with her mousy brown hair. I'd been thinking that ever since she showed up without a trace of blue at the start of the sessions a few months earlier. At the start of the day, she'd been quiet, even for her, but she'd loosened up by now and kicked the floor with her heel on every downbeat.

Pizzazz added some hollers, and Jetta _stupidly_ ran her elbow along her keys. Ok, it sounded great, but don't tell her I said that.

Stormer began playing the coda, Pizzazz let out a wail, I hammered out a few last notes, and the song ended. I didn't realize how much I'd been sweating till I pulled my bangs out of my eyes and watched them drip like I'd come out of a thunderstorm.

"Yeah, I think we've got that one down. We're gonna have to keep that one close to the end—my voice is shredded." Pizzazz sounded hoarse and tired, sure signs the rehearsal was about to end.

"'Ey, Yanks, you like what I did with me elbow, there? Just improvised that on the fly! Pretty great, huh?"

I snorted. "Ha, in case you don't know, the Misfits don't do _cheese_! Take that amateur hour stuff back to the Europevision contest, or whatever you call it."

"You find Europe on a map, Roxy, and I will!" Jetta gave me that smug grin she always flashes when she thinks she's outsmarted me. "If you like, we can put up a map and you can toss darts at it. You're bound to find it eventually!"

"Or I could just throw 'em at you!" My fists were ready to start swinging. Jetta imagined we were these old buddies who just liked to tease each other, and sometimes we were, but she still found ways to really burn my ass.

"Knock it off you two, I'm getting a headache! Geez, my kid's more mature than you two." Pizzazz, a mom: I still wouldn't believe it, had I not spent all those months around her while she griped about how being pregnant made her feet hurt. I guess she's a good mom, though; she spoils the little turd rotten. Eh, it's not like I know what a good mother is, anyway.

Stormer approached Jetta and said "That sounded good, but the end of the song's pretty busy as it is." Jetta's face fell, and I resisted the urge to rub it in. See? No one can say I'm not a team player.

I felt good enough to try and keep the rehearsal going. "Hey, let's do 'Listen Up.' We can have it in reserve as an extra encore." I set my guitar aside and picked up my drumsticks: "Listen Up" was one of the handful of songs I drummed on when we played it live.

"Are you daft, Roxy? We 'aven't played it since-"

I cut Jetta off. "—Since the last tour. It should be no problem to remember it. Come on, let's go!" I sat down on the drum stool and gave the snare a whack.

Pizzazz glared at me and shook her head. "My throat is getting sore, and besides, I need to get home soon. I gotta to make sure that new butler's not going to rob me blind while we're off on tour."

"How are you going to do that?" I bit my lip, as Stormer dragged Pizzazz even further away from doing some more rocking.

"Daddy had new security cameras installed in the mansion. The latest models—so small they could hide them anywhere!"

"Even in the bathroom?" For a Misfit, Stormer was always a prude.

I gave the cymbal a crash. "Come on! Pizzazz, if we hurry, you can still get home in time to spy on your whole staff, Jetta can get home to her bucktoothed hubby, and Stormer can get home in time to watch _Survival_, or whatever that junk's called." I could never understand Stormer's tastes: people stranded on a deserted island? Been there, done that.

Stormer bit her lip, then turned to Pizzazz. "Maybe we could run through one more song? It's always good to have an extra song in reserve." She picked up her own guitar and gave it a quick tune. Good ol' Stormer.

Pizzazz shrugged at us. "Fine, all right, one more."

"Bloody 'ell." Because we'd rearranged this one with me on drums, Stormer moved over to guitar, and that left Jetta with the main keyboard part. Now, I'm not saying I pushed for "Listen Up" because Jetta was rusty at it and might look bad…

Nah, that's _totally_ why I picked it!

Jetta piped up, "Wait, did you call Andy buck-"

"—One, two, onetwothreefour!" I counted out, and we plowed into "Listen Up."

The song turned out sloppier than what we'd done earlier that evening, and Jetta hit some bum notes, but overall, we just couldn't help but sound awesome. Pizzazz got into it and stalked the rehearsal studio as if she were in front of fifty thousand fans. Stormer turned to me during her solo, and I gave a few extra cymbal crashes for good measure.

It was right then that she gave me this sad little lip quiver. Stormer can be a real softy (and a wuss), but I couldn't remember her ever looking upset when she was playing. I mean, music is her _thing_, you know—it's what she lives for.

Distracted, I missed a beat. I panicked, and found I had to start counting the beats just to make it through the song. Only my determination to not look like a dumbass carried me through.

I managed to slam things home with a final thwack of the snare. Pizzazz whirled around, and, with the mic still at her lips, called to me, "Ok, that's it, rehearsal's over- unless _Roxy _has a problem with that? Do you?"

I laughed. "Nah, that's cool." I put my sticks down and stood and stretched. The rehearsal had taken more out of me than I thought.

I soon heard Jetta babbling again. "We actually sounded pretty ace there—nice and raw. You sounded terrific, Pizzazz."

Me, I wanted to gag at Jetta's fawning, but Pizzazz simply said, "Sure, thanks." She was already packing up her gear, and checking her cell phone for missed calls. She dialed home, and I listened in for a minute as Pizzazz shrieked commands down to the phone. She finally tossed her cell across the room and yelled out, "Idiot nanny! What the hell makes her think she knows anything about raising _my_ little boy! She is so fired!"

It wasn't till now that I noticed Stormer sitting on a chair off to the side, cradling her guitar and staring at the floor.

I'm not gonna lie and say I'm some expert on feelings and shit, but I'd known Stormer long enough to know that when she's upset, a little praise is usually enough to cheer her up and make her act normal. I walked over to her and gave her a pat on the shoulder. "Really great rehearsal today. Your new songs are gonna kick ass on stage."

I expected her to look at me with those big blue eyes and give me that dopey smile that makes her look like a kid who got everything she wanted for Christmas. What I didn't expect were the tears, coming in rivers.

"Uh, guys…" I didn't know what else to say, I just knew I couldn't handle this alone; not whatever this was that had made her break down. I kept patting her on the shoulder and shushing her. I had no idea what else I could do.

Pizzazz soon joined me on Stormer's other side. She gave me a look of pure confusion. She didn't say anything, but began stroking Stormer's hair. As token a gesture as that was (about as token as mine, to be honest), I remember thinking how being a mom had softened Pizzazz. A little, anyway.

Jetta knelt in front of Stormer and patted her hand. "What's wrong, luv?"

Stormer wiped away her eyes and tried to compose herself. I saw her take a few heavy breaths and straighten herself up in her chair. She hadn't even been this agitated when she came out to us about ten years earlier; I couldn't imagine what could be more nerve-wracking than that. What she finally said shocked me much more.

"I'm leaving the group. I mean, after the tour, I'm leaving."

I'll never forget, I told her, "No, you're not." I meant it too. Quitting? What a crazy thing to say!

"I've been thinking about it a long time now, and, I just, I mean, I just need to move on." Stormer's voice was barely above a whisper. "I have to do this."

I spoke up again, "You're a Misfit. We're not just a band, we're The Misfits! We stick together. We look after each other. We're a fucking _family_! No one leaves The Misfits!" I heard myself getting louder and louder; soon they were all staring at me. Stormer began wincing. Only now did I realize I'd dug my nails into her shoulder.

Stormer put her hand on my arm and locked her eyes on mine. I should have looked away. "Roxy, I've always loved being a Misfit, but…I'm not twenty anymore, and things just, they just change. I need something different with my music, with my _life_." She dropped my hand and slumped down. "This is so hard for me; this group has been everything to me for the last fifteen years. I wish you could understand."

I hadn't noticed that Pizzazz had stepped away from us, until I heard the clicking of her heels as she paced on the other side of the room. The sound made me giddy. Now it was coming: Pizzazz was about to unload on Stormer, about to remind her that she'd be no one if Pizzazz and her daddy's money hadn't pulled her from nowhere to superstardom. Remind her no one would have cared about her solo albums or her duets with that twerp Kimber had it not been for the fame The Misfits brought her. Remind her she can't walk out on us, cause we're nothing without her either.

But I'm no psychic, I guess. Instead, Pizzazz put her hands to her face, made a weird little sniffle, and finally said, "I guess I owe you, Stormer. I'm glad you had the guts, cause I didn't know how to say it."

I felt my heart beating a jillion miles an hour. I looked at Stormer—she seemed confused. I looked at Jetta—she had her head in her hands. I turned back to Pizzazz. "What do you mean?"

"I nearly quit after the last album. With raising my son, and my dad's health problems, and all that crap, I just don't want to spend all my time in the music business anymore. But, I knew I couldn't leave you girls out to dry like that. I mean, _I'll_ always have money, but, after all the contractual stuff with Eric, and certain…personal problems…" She gave me a look: fixed, stern. Enough to remind me what problems she meant.

She sighed, shook out her hair, and continued, "Look, people call me a bitch, and they're right, but I'm not ungrateful. Not after all we've been through. I wanted to make sure you were all on solid footing."

Stormer had found some Kleenex and blew her nose. "That actually means a lot. Thank you."

Jetta stood and faced the rest of us. "So, I guess this is it, then? One more tour, then 'Ta-ta, Misfits?'"

Pizzazz shook her head, "No, one more _brilliant_ tour. We're gonna leave 'em _begging_ for more!"

Stormer mustered a smile. "We do sound great. This is what I wanted, for us to go out on top."

I couldn't take anymore of this crap. "Who the fuck says this is it? If you wanna quit, that's your own goddamn business. Me and Jetta'll find a new singer," I glared at Pizzazz, "and a new keyboard player!" I shot my glare at Stormer-she hung her head again. I wanted to hit her, make her come to her senses.

It was years before I felt ashamed for thinking that way.

Jetta's jaw dropped. "Roxy, are you barmy? There's no Misfits without Stormer, and certainly not without Pizzazz. Us two aren't enough to keep the band going, and 'ow could we ever replace them?"

I felt my fists clenching. My brain rattled around inside my head. "We'll find somebody good. There's gotta be-" I turned to Jetta, "We pulled you up out of nowhere, and we can do it again!"

"Well, that makes me feel _wonderful._"

At that moment Pizzazz showed her amazing talent for saying the wrong thing: "Look, Roxy, you can still stay at the mansion for as long as you like. Daddy won't mind."

I grabbed her guitar—the one she mostly just used as a prop anyway—and smashed it against the wall. "I'm not a fucking charity case! If you don't wanna be a Misfit anymore, there's no point in me hangin' around, is there?"

I felt Jetta grab my arms and try to pin them to my side. "Christ, Rox, get a grip!" I broke away from her and pushed her to the ground. Always a good feeling.

I noticed that Pizzazz had taken refuge behind one of the Marshall stacks. I admit, sometimes I like knowing I can scare her.

Stormer picked up the neck of the guitar I'd smashed. I heard her let a big sigh. "Roxy, please, I know this isn't what you want—"

"-Damn right, it's not! Hey, I don't get a vote; that's fine, whatever. I'm glad you all _asked me_ before making these big decisions!" I couldn't stand to look at any of them.

Fifteen years, and they throw everything away. We'd taken on everyone—Jem, the Stingers, Dominick Lerner, Bliss, M-Aru, Sugar and Spice—and we'd always come out on top, in the end. Why stop now?

"I wish you could see, we're just different now. It really hurts to come to work everyday with people who mean the world to me, and yet spend all my time wishing I was somewhere else."

I stared at Stormer and stammered, "You—you don't mean that!"

"I'm sorry, Roxy, but-"

"-No, don't say that!" I wanted to just zip her mouth shut.

"But, it's true. Don't you see how much we've changed?"

I guess it was only then that I took a look at the others and really focused on them. Pizzazz still kept her hair green, and Jetta still added a few ugly streaks of silver to hers (through she wore it in a bob these days), but it finally dawned on me that I was the only one in my stage makeup.

Stormer had shown up at the start of the sessions without hers, while Pizzazz and Jetta stopped wearing theirs after the first week or so. Me, I feel naked without it. But I didn't think it was any big deal till this moment.

I don't remember when I started gasping for air, but I guess it must've been around then, cause I couldn't bring myself to say anything. I know I shook my head, over and over, and then I turned and ran, right out the door (which I slammed behind me), down the hallway past the other studios, and out into the night.

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><p>I must've driven around for a couple hours, aimlessly. I remember I saw a sign that said "Inglewood," and I wondered where'd I turned to end up there. I kept going till I hit Redondo Beach, cause I remembered there a place there that stayed open late and made decent hoagies. Not like Philly, but what can you do?<p>

Around midnight or so, I sat on the hood of my car, which I'd parked by the pier, and watched the waves hit the shore as I fussed with my cheesesteak hoagie. I'd lost my appetite, knowing that it wasn't food I wanted at all.

Ok, I guess I might as well tell you: I got into heroin about eight years or so before this.

Oh, like you're so damn perfect? Whatever.

It's fucking crazy, cause I just might have been the cleanest of us till then. When I saw all the stupid crap my mom did because of drugs, I swore I wouldn't let that happen to me. I wasn't gonna let some asshole beat the shit out of me cause I was too fucked up to stop him, while my kid hid behind the couch and prayed for him to die.

When I joined the Misfits, there were dozens of nights where I'd lead us away from parties where people were doing coke or smack, by convincing the others we'd have more fun wrecking stuff instead. Hell, Pizzazz grew up in a _mansion, _and Stormer always had big brother watching her; they didn't know the real world, like I did. (Besides, now I know that wrecking stuff _is_ more fun!)

Wouldn't you know, when Stormer did try pot, it wasn't me that first got her high, it was that wimpy Hologram, Kimber Benton! (Supposedly, she'd tell her creepy sister she was having a glass of "chamomile tea" before bed! Pretty funny, but Kimber's still a loser). I liked to get plastered now and then, or have a toke or two, but hard stuff freaked the hell out of me.

But around '92, I guess I went through a crappy time. Pizzazz had her baby, so she took a bunch of time off to deal with that. We'd finally fired Eric (Pizzazz gets all pissy if you even _hint_ the firing and her baby are connected, but we're not dumb—we all knew it was his). If that wasn't enough, Jetta started dating our _new_ manager, Andy, and Stormer recorded a solo album; I hardly ever saw any of 'em for a while.

Being lonely blows chunks.

I tried to put together an album of my own. I met up with a couple bands we'd known from Stingers Sound; I did a little jamming, and tried to find someone I could write songs with. It never sounded right—the guy on keyboards would hit a note, and I'd know that Stormer would've come up with something a hundred times better. Or I'd sing something, and I'd wish I could hear Pizzazz shout it out instead.

So that went nowhere. Instead, I met a guy at a party for a friend of a friend of a friend of Andy's. He's a really well-known actor these days, so I probably shouldn't say who he was…

Nah, just kidding. It was Tony Holmes.

Anyway, Tony could be a real smartass, which I liked, and he didn't grope me or anything after the first five minutes, so when he asked me out, I said, "Sure." Yeah, I'd heard rumors about him having a crazy drug problem, but he didn't do anything like that around me at first, and it's not like I wanted to marry the guy or anything. I just found him fun to be around.

Long story short, after a couple months, I caught him shooting heroin in the bathroom one day. He made a joke about it that I don't even remember, and next thing I knew, I let him teach me to shoot up, too. Yeah, I'm fucking stupid—you're not the first person to tell me that.

There's big chunks of that next eighteen months I don't remember; not the way you remember normal stuff, anyway. I just remember how _amazing_ I felt for a while. I knew I was the greatest, most beautiful, most talented musician of all time. Maybe I didn't feel that way when I'd puke my guts out behind Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles, but, even now, I'm shaking as I remember the unbelievable highs.

Sometimes, when I badly want a fix, I put on the album we made during that time. I play the first song, and I want to smash my face in when I hear Stormer playing bass instead of me, cause I was too fucked up to string two notes together. I guess I wasn't that bad through the whole sessions—I know a few of the guitar solos are me—but it's embarrassing hearing them covering for my sorry ass through the whole record.

They all knew I was a loser—my mom, the kids at school, Eric Raymond, Jerrica Benton. Jetta. Even Pizzazz. I knew one day I'd prove everyone wrong.

I failed.

Yeah, I guess I'm nuts—I stay clean because I know I don't deserve to get high. Eh, whatever works.

I let the Misfits down, and I damn near ruined the record. They should have thrown my junkie ass out into the street. Instead, they stopped letting me out of their sights. I spent hours playing peek-a-boo with Pizzazz's rugrat (he kicked ass at that game—not as good as me, though). I went on dozens of double dates with Jetta and Andy, and whatever no-hoper they could scrounge up for me. And Stormer seemed to involve me in anything she could think of. I helped her record dozens of demos; when I started to clean up, we worked on an album together. I was more of a glorified guest star, but she made sure I showed up for all the sessions.

And, I have vague memories of Stormer trying to hold me and calm me down when the withdrawals were at their worst.

Before too long, The Misfits toured, to all ten, or twelve, or however many continents there are. By the end of the tour, I was clean—I still think about heroin every day, but I reached the point where I'd found enough willpower not to do it anymore. Faster than Tony did—the ass didn't take long to bail on me, and he stayed hooked for another decade. I don't care how many hit movies he makes, the guy's a dick, and you tell him I said so.

As I watched the waves crash against the beach, I remembered how much I missed heroin. And I thought of how the other Misfits saved my life. Especially Stormer. They didn't have to, but they did. I thought I'd finally understood what it's like to have people love you. As I bit into my hoagie, I tried to figure out what made them stop caring about me.

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><p>Watching some drunk take a whiz off the pier isn't how I'd planned to spend my night, though it did make me homesick. I love lying on the beach and tanning, but the ocean's so damn <em>boring<em> at night. There's nothing to do, and the sound of the waves starts to drive me nuts after a while. I don't know, nature just sounds weird to me.

I hate to just sit around and think, so I wandered down to the beach and started chucking whatever I could find into the ocean. A couple guys walked toward me at one point, but I gave 'em a good snarl and made 'em run. No free dinner for you, boys.

I picked up a crab I found scurrying around, and I was just about to heave it into the surf when I heard someone say my name. I turned to see Stormer stumbling across the sand toward me.

"You should have taken your shoes off," I called out.

She panted. "I was in a hurry. Had to make sure you're ok."

I turned back to the ocean and hurled that crab into the night. I heard a tiny splash. "What, you been following me?"

"All night. Didn't you hear me call after you when ran you out?"

I shrugged. "I guess I couldn't hear anything right then." I turned back to her. The ocean breeze had kicked up, and she held her hand to her hair to keep her daisy from blowing away. "You look funny," I told her.

"Huh?" Stormer brushed her brown hair from her face. Her mascara had run. "You were so upset, Roxy. I had to make sure you—"

"—that I didn't go cruising for smack?" I kicked a clump of sand and somehow got some in my own face.

"That's not what I was going to say."

"But you were thinking it!"

Stormer dropped her head and paced in place. "Yes, I thought it. You were so mad, I didn't know _what_ you might do." She started making little weepy noises. Ugh, I can't take when she does that—I don't know how to react.

I found a beer bottle, checked to see if anything remained at the bottom, and then sent it flying to the sea. "Well, never mind, cause I _did_ think about it. I decided to get a hoagie instead, but I wasn't as hungry as I thought."

Stormer put her hand on my shoulder, and I brushed it off. "I know it doesn't make it better, but I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. Misfits don't apologize for anything."

I can't make myself forget how she grabbed my shoulders, spun me around, looked straight into my eyes, and, with more firmness than I'd ever heard from her, told me, "Roxy, I'm _sorry_."

Goddamn me, I cried. Like a little wimp, I started bawling, the tears coming so fast I could barely breathe. I practically screamed out my grief as I blubbered and howled. Stormer held me as my legs gave out; we sank onto the beach together, her cradling me as I half pushed her away, half pulled her closer.

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><p>A little while later, we'd made it back to my car. We sat on the hood, picking at the cold hoagie while saying nothing. But, of course, Stormer can never leave well enough alone: "I really will miss being in the band together."<p>

I nearly choked on a tomato. "Fucking hell, Stormer, what's your problem? 'Oh gee, I sure love being a Misfit, but I'm quitting anyway!' Make up your damn mind!"

Stormer gave me a pissy look, which made me feel a little better. "It's taken me a long time to decide what I want, _because_ it's not an easy decision!" She put down her half of the sandwich and shook her head.

"It took that long to figure out whether or not you want to work with me anymore?"

I've never really gotten used to Stormer raising her voice. "You just don't get it! This isn't about you, it's about me. About what I need."

I sniggered, "Yeah, I guess you don't need me around anymore." I couldn't get how she could act so selfish. That's not her job.

"Ugh!" Stormer grabbed her half of the hoagie and tossed it across the parking lot.

"Jerk!" I pushed her, harder then I meant to, and sent her sprawling to the pavement.

She sat up and dusted off her sleeves. "I'm getting sick of-"

"—Hey, I didn't mean to-"

"I'm getting sick of you thinking of no one but yourself!" She started to stand up and brush off her skirt.

"And I'm getting sick of you not caring about me!"

I still have trouble wrapping my mind around what happened next: Stormer screamed "Fuck you!" then leaped at me, grabbed me by the legs, and tackled me to the ground.

I don't think I've ever been more proud of her.

Of course, she's not me, so after a few seconds, I'd flipped her over and pinned her. But I'll give her credit: she didn't look beaten. She scowled at me, for a moment, then she got all weepy again.

I let go of her. "Where does it hurt? I know I didn't break anything."

"Fuck you," Stormer repeated, softly. "After everything we've been through, how _dare_ you say I don't care."

I brushed her hair from her face. "Yeah, you're right. I thought back to some of the bad times earlier, remembering all you guys did for me."

Stormer sat up and tried to pull me into a hug, but I brushed her away. She sighed. "I never told you, but I pleaded with Pizzazz not to give up on you. She nearly quit the group right then, but I was afraid…"

I knew what she wanted to say, but I still asked, "Of what?"

"That you'd die if we didn't help you."

I shuddered at memory of the lows so deep, I could hardly see or hear. "Nah, it would've taken a lot more than that to kill Roxanne Pelligrini. Anyway, I knew it must've been you; you were always such a softy."

Stormer put her arm around me, and this time I let her. "I did it because you're my best friend, and that hasn't changed."

I gave her a smirk. "Sure you don't have me confused with your carrot-topped duet partner?" I jumped to my feet and headed back to the railing overlooking the surf.

Stormer didn't take long to sidle up next to me. "Roxy, if that really bothers you, then please, let me assure you: Kimber's not my best friend. You are."

"Why?" I really wanted to know. After all this time, I still couldn't understand why this person, this talent, this artist, this Misfit, could want me for a friend.

She gave me a smile. "Hey, I'd have always been shy little Mary Phillips if I hadn't met you and Pizzazz. And she led us to the top, but you were always the one pulling me along, showing me how to survive in the world."

I thought back to those early days, when we blazed a trail of havoc across the music industry, and stayed out of jail by the skin of Eric's lawyers. "I treated you like crap."

She could only shrug. "Sometimes, yeah. But I knew you were nicer to me than anyone else you knew." She giggled, then added, "You've only punched me, like, once!"

I don't know why, since it wasn't _that_ funny, but that gave me a big belly laugh. "I guess so. Well, if I helped you out so much, why are you leaving?"

Stormer shook her head again, then she took my hand and held it. "Because I have to. I have to see if I can be on my own. All of us, we'll stagnate if we keep being Misfits forever—as musicians. As people."

I felt a gnawing in my stomach that had nothing to do with that crappy hoagie. "I need you. Fuck, I hate saying it, but I need you all, especially you. I don't know if I can handle not having you guys around."

She hugged me again—this was getting ridiculous, but I didn't stop her. "It's not like I'm dying, Roxy. We'll still see each other."

I shrugged. "Yeah, sure."

She took my chin in her hand and looked right into my eyes. "Yes, we will. You know me well enough to know that, right?"

I nodded. We turned and watched the waves. I'd grown tired of talking about feelings and junk—or maybe I was feeling a little better. Who knows?

I don't remember why, but finally I blurted out, "I'm thirty-six years old."

"Hmm?"

"Nothing." I slouched down. One more thought had popped into my head. One I'd been thinking of for years. Well, if I would ever ask, it might as well be now. "Hey, uh, if I were, ya know, gay too, would you be, you know?"

Stormer coughed loudly. Even in the moonlight, I could see her eyes pop from their sockets. "Why do you…what?"

"I just wanted to know."

She looked so sad, I instantly regretted what I'd said. Hadn't I messed with her enough tonight? Well, maybe we were even now.

She nodded, "Yeah, absolutely. In a heartbeat."

I looked at those big blue eyes of hers, and saw her pouty lips. I said the first thing I thought: "I sure wish I was a lesbo."

Stormer let out a long, loud laugh. "Oh, Roxy, you have no idea!" She didn't say anything else about it, and I didn't want her to.

I pointed to the beach. "Let's race!"

"Huh? What are you talking about?"

I grabbed her hand and dragged her back to the parking lot. "There's no one around right now—let's race on the beach."

"Roxy, it's been a long night, I don't feel like running."

I grabbed my keys and dangled them in front of her. "Screw running! Let's _race_! I wanna see what your Porsche can do."

Stormer put her hand to her cheek. "On the _beach_?"

"Yeah, it'll be great. Come on!" I ran to my Ferrari, fired up the engine, and peeled out across the parking lot. I drove a couple hundred feet, slipped into first gear, then locked into a skid. I floored it, let the clutch out, and began spinning donuts. Now engulfed in smoke, I shifted up, blasted out from the haze, and slammed to a stop, inches from Stormer. "Well, are you racin', or aren't you?"

She rocked on her heels for a moment, then grinned. "Ok, I'm in!"

We raced on the beach, blowing sand in our wakes, making bums and dealers scurry, till we heard the sirens coming. We sped off into the night.

* * *

><p>Board meetings are boring—the record label wants approval on a new remaster; so and so company wants a license to use our logo on a t-shirt; Eric or some other scumbag is suing us again. Yawn.<p>

The only reason I even go is cause, since that final tour, it's the only time we're all together again. Except, sometimes it makes me feel like a geezer—"How's the family? Got any new projects going on? Oh, me? I'm doing fine." Lots of small talk, but hardly anything that reminds me why I loved being in the band with them so much. They got so _old_.

I never see Pizzazz anymore, except at the meetings. Still, she walks into the room, and we all know she's in charge. It's like, animal magnetics or something. She kept the green hair, so I gotta give her respect for that. Her kid's in college now, but he still lives at home with her.

I see Jetta once in a while, if I get a session or something, or just around town. I try to pick fights with her like the old days, but she just goes all lovey dovey on me: "Oh, dearie, it's so wicked to see you again!" Whatever.

Stormer didn't lie to me—I still see her. I'm on all her albums, at least on one track each. Sometimes, when I'm not on the road, she'll stop by for a while, and we'll hang out, have a drink, and just reminisce. It brings me down sometimes, but don't tell her I said so. Not her fault, but I get so tired of "Remember when…".

They've all been frustrated with me these last few years. I understand why. These days, when I'm on stage at some county fair, or some run-down casino, with a Pizzazz wannabe in a green wig, and some girl playing keytar like Stormer would if she'd had a stroke, then, yeah, I get pretty frustrated too. I know I'm making The Misfits look cheap. I know I'm one step above being a whore.

Hey, what can I say? I've never been any good at holding onto money, and I gotta pay the bills somehow. I'm not ever going back to the streets. But I know this is what I'd be doing anyway. Since we first stood on stage together at the Storehouse, playing to a couple dozen punks and skinheads, this is what I've lived for. It's the only thing I'm good at.

Sometimes Stormer (I don't care what her album covers say, she's "Stormer" to me) tries telling me I need to "move on." Pfft, easy for her to say. How do you "move on" from the best thing that ever happened to you?

Hope you paid attention, cause there's no way I'm gonna tell all this again. Don't go thinking I want any sympathy from you. Why should I want anyone to feel sorry for me? I'm a Misfit, and I always will be.

* * *

><p>(Special thanks to my beta reader: my sister, Rosanna).<p> 


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